


Iron at Discretion

by richmahogany



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Logan Pierce is unfavorably compared to Harold, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6543940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richmahogany/pseuds/richmahogany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billionaires don't iron their shirts themselves. So who does it for Harold Partridge?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron at Discretion

Mrs Glinka carefully slid the plastic cover over the suit and replaced the hanger on the rail. Mr Pierce would be along later, and he liked everything to be just so. Mr Pierce was a fairly new customer, and Mrs Glinka didn’t like him. He was very demanding, and while he hadn’t had anything to complain about, there was always something condescending in his dealings with her. Like she was one of his minions, not an independent business woman providing a service. She checked the other items of clothing which were due to be picked up today when the sounds of the shutting door and the tapping of a cane announced the arrival of her favorite customer. She rushed to the front of the shop to greet Mr Partridge.

He politely returned her “good morning”, then gestured to the driver of his town car to hand over the pile of clothes he was carrying.

“There are a couple of suits today,” he said, “one of them is new, so please take extra care. Otherwise it’s just the usual complement of shirts.”

Mrs Glinka reached for the suits and hung them on the rail behind her. One of them was indeed a suit she hadn’t seen before – a summer suit in a gray lightweight fabric. She couldn’t resist having a quick peek at the lining and the stitching. It was of very high quality, but she had expected nothing less. Mr Partridge smiled as he watched her.

“I was in Rome recently and had it made there,” he explained. “Fortunately I can rely on Giovanni for his craftsmanship. That’s a rare thing these days.”

Mrs Glinka nodded in agreement.

“It is very beautiful,” she said. “You will look very elegant even in hot weather. That’s a rare thing these days as well.”

Mr Partridge smiled again.

“Thank you for the compliment,” he said. “There is no particular hurry, but I would appreciate it if I could collect them by Thursday.”

“Certainly.”

Mrs Glinka made a note in her book. She then wrote a number on a card and handed it to Mr Partridge.

“Please rest assured that I will treat them with the care they deserve.”

“I’m sure of it. Until Thursday, then. Goodbye.”

Mrs Glinka watched through the door as Mr Partridge got into the car – a rather awkward process, but he would have disdained any help. Then the driver got in as well and the car pulled away.

Mrs Glinka took Mr Partridge’s clothes into the back area of the shop and sorted them according to the treatment that awaited them: laundering and ironing for the shirts, dry cleaning for the suits. Mr Partridge had high standards, as he had made clear on his first visit.

“I have tried three other dry cleaners,” he had declared, “and none of them seemed to know how to treat good clothes properly. I want my suits handled with care, and I want them to be ready on time. I am prepared to pay a premium for your best service.”

“Everybody gets my best service,” Mrs Glinka had replied. “I guarantee that you will be satisfied.”

He was satisfied, and he told her so. He had remained a loyal customer ever since. In a way, she reflected, he was not dissimilar from Mr Pierce. They were both demanding customers, and they both had the supreme confidence bordering on arrogance of the successful businessman. But there were vital differences, which made Mrs Glinka like one of them but not the other. They were both very rich, and they both wore expensive, bespoke suits. But Mr Pierce wore them only because they were expensive. He wore 3,000 dollar suits because he wanted to show off his wealth. He didn’t care about the suits themselves, and consequently he had no style, no flair. Mr Partridge on the other hand wore expensive suits because he appreciated the quality that came with the price: the fine cloth, the exquisite tailoring, the hand-stitched lapels and buttonholes. He had selected his tailors with care, and Mrs Glinka was sure that he had built up a good relationship with them. (She presumed there was more than one.) He showed good taste in his ties and pocket squares as well and clearly put some thought into how he dressed. And he didn’t treat Mrs Glinka like a servant who had better come up to scratch or risk punishment. Mr Partridge was just as demanding as Mr Pierce, but he didn’t look down on her. He respected her skills and rewarded her with his trust. And as for Mr Pierce’s custom of only having one suit, well, that was just ridiculous. If he wanted to demonstrate that in spite of being a billionaire he led a simple life, he wouldn’t buy such an expensive suit. Or if he did, he wouldn’t tell everybody at length how much it had cost. It also meant that more often than not he came in half naked to pick up the suit, which was an embarrassment that Mr Partridge wouldn’t dream of inflicting on a lady. Mrs Glinka shuddered at the thought of her favorite customer appearing in his underwear, both for her own sake and on behalf of Mr Partridge. In short, Mr Partridge was a gentleman, whereas Mr Pierce was not.

Mrs Glinka sighed. If only more of her customers were like Mr Partridge. Most of them treated her alright, but it was only Mr Partridge who showed any interest in her trade and let her know how he valued her services. 

It hadn’t been easy, she reflected. For many years now she had run the laundry and dry cleaning business with success, but she had never dreamed of doing that when she came to this country. She was newly married when she came from Russia with her husband to build a better life. He quickly found work as a mechanic, and she ran the household and brought up the children, of which there were three before long. And then tragedy struck. Kyrill left the house one morning, arrived at his work, collapsed and died. A congenital heart defect he had never known he had. Suddenly she was left alone with three small children, the oldest had just started school while the youngest was still a toddler. No help could come from her family back home, and she had no other family in America. She had to find work, but what could she do – a woman who had never learned a trade, never had a job? What skills could a housewife offer? She could cook, wash and clean. Cooking did not appeal to her as a job. Cleaning wasn’t something she wanted to do all day. That left washing. This had the advantage that it could be done in her home, so she started off by offering a laundry and ironing service. She told her friends, the word spread, and soon she had a pool of customers. Eventually she earned enough to put some money aside, thinking she might expand into bigger premises and move the business out of her home. But then she had the idea of adding dry cleaning to her services. And that’s when it really took off. There were many young businessmen in the city, Wall Street was booming, and someone had to iron their shirts for them now that their mothers couldn’t do it anymore. And of course they all wore suits.

Those were the busiest years, and Mrs Glinka had found that she enjoyed the work. She had a certain interest in clothes, in fabrics and how to keep them in good condition. Back in Russia, her father had been a draper, and she had spent some time helping out in his shop before her marriage. He never agreed to teach her his trade – she was only a girl, after all, destined to be a wife and mother – but he did show her how to differentiate between different fabrics, how to tell good cloth from inferior, and which fabric was best for which item of dress. She remembered all this knowledge when she handled her customers’ clothes, looking, feeling, and, she had to admit, judging. You could tell a lot about people by the state of their clothing, she thought. And then there were special customers like Mr Partridge, whose suits were a pleasure to behold and a pleasure to care for because she knew he cared as well. She only regretted that he didn’t seem to have a wife. Surely any woman would count herself fortunate if she had a husband like that. She had mentioned it once in the presence of her granddaughter, who was supposed to help out on Saturdays in return for pocket money, but spent most of her time sitting on the windowsill with a dog-eared paperback. Stacey had rolled her eyes at her and said:

“He’s gay – obviously! No straight man talks about the hand stitching on his lavender pocket square!”

But Mrs Glinka didn’t want to believe that. She didn’t really believe in homosexuality. It wasn’t that she found it immoral or that she hated gay people, it was just that in her mind the only true relationship could be between a man and a woman. That was what everyone aspired to, and if anyone got together with someone of the same sex, it could only be because they hadn’t found a partner of the opposite one. She could well understand that a man would want to be with another man he liked, if he couldn’t find a suitable woman, but in her opinion such a relationship could only ever be second best. She didn’t say any of this to her granddaughter, and anyway, there was no evidence that Mr Partridge was in a relationship with anyone, man or woman. But she couldn’t help thinking that it was a waste of a good man.

The 80s and 90s had been the busiest time for her. After that it tailed off a bit, but there were still enough people requiring her services, not to mention a number of long-standing regulars, to make it worthwhile. Now, though, she had decided that it was enough. She hadn’t told Mr Partridge, but in a few weeks’ time she would close the shop and retire. None of her family showed any interest in taking over, and she had no other successor, so she would just shut up shop and eventually sell the premises. It would be a big change for her, but she was starting to feel her age. No, she thought, enough was enough.

The last day came, with only a few customers to serve, who all wished her well. At five o’clock she prepared to lock the door for the last time. That was it, then. The end of her working life. She couldn’t help feeling a bit sad, although on the whole she was looking forward to having more time for herself. She had vaguely hoped to see Mr Partridge one more time, but he hadn’t come. Did he even know she was retiring? And even if he did, he probably had other things to think about.

She was about to turn the key in the lock when a messenger knocked on the door.

“Mrs Glinka?” he asked, and when she nodded, he handed her a bouquet of flowers, gave her a cheery wave and moved on. She locked the door behind him and carried the flowers inside. There was a small envelope attached. Carefully she set the flowers down and opened it. On the card inside was written:

“With all good wishes for your retirement, in gratitude, Harold Partridge”

So he had thought of her! It was just like him, she thought, to maintain his discretion but show his appreciation. Their relations had always been strictly business-like, even if she had a special rapport with him, and to send his good wishes like this was the most appropriate way. And Mr Partridge was nothing if not appropriate at all times. She would never see him again now, she thought with a touch of sadness. She hoped he would find another dry cleaner who could take care of his beautiful suits as she had done.

***

In the end, she did see Mr Partridge once more. It was a few months into her retirement, and she was walking through the park to her daughter’s apartment when she spotted him getting up from a chess table. He said a few words to his chess partner and walked off. She wanted to go up to him, ask him how he was, but she hesitated. Mr Partridge had changed. He looked tired and worn out, as if he had just recovered from an illness. He was moving slowly, more stiffly than before, and he didn’t have his cane. He wasn’t wearing one of his beautiful suits either. He was dressed in rather ill-fitting pants and a mismatched sport coat, but at least he had still bothered with the tie and pocket square. Had he fallen on hard times?

Mrs Glinka decided that he might like to see a friendly face, and so she eventually approached him. He looked almost shocked when he saw her, but then he gave her a friendly, if tired, smile.

“Mrs Glinka,” he said, “how nice to see you again. How is retirement for you?”

“Very well,” she replied. “I’m just on the way to my daughter’s. I’m babysitting my grandson this afternoon. He’s only three, such a lovely little boy. I have more time for him now, and I really enjoy it. But what about you? Please don’t take this the wrong way, but it looks like life is not treating you very well.”

Mr Partridge’s expression became closed and distant, but he answered:

“You’re right, I’ve had a bit of a misfortune. It’s just that a big investment I had made in the past turned out to be rather misjudged. I couldn’t know it at the time, but it has come back to haunt me, and there are…consequences.”

He shrugged.

“I get by. I make a living, and I consider myself still better off than many others. One must be grateful for small mercies.”

He smiled again and took Mrs Glinka’s hand. “Good-bye,” he said, “enjoy your time with your grandson. It was kind of you to enquire, but don’t worry about me. I’m sure better times will come again.”

He shook her hand, then he turned away and disappeared down the path.

That was the last time Mrs Glinka saw Mr Partridge. She sometimes thought of him still, always with joy at the memory of when he was her best customer at the laundry, then with sadness at the cruel trick that life had played on this kind, generous man.

**Author's Note:**

> "Iron at Discretion" says the care label in my supposedly non-iron shirts. I had the idea for this story, unsurprisingly, when I was ironing my shirts. And yes, music-lovers, Mrs Glinka is named after the composer.


End file.
